Far Enough
by Halcris
Summary: Doyle has disappeared, and the meagre clues are totally confusing. Where on earth is he ?


**Far Enough**

The bright headlights of the truck pierced the darkness of the bleak windswept moor, lit only fitfully by a moon often obscured by scudding clouds.

It pulled to a halt. Two men climbed out, went round and opened up the back. Between them they dragged out a body. Callously holding it by the arms and legs, they swung it between them, and heaved it down the slope. It landed on springy heath bushes, and slid down to lie out of sight in a space between the tangled roots.

The men climbed back into the truck, and it roared off into the night, leaving the moor to return to its silent dark gloom.

Bodie and Doyle had had a busy day making enquiries. They had amassed quite a lot of information, and several new names, so they returned to base to get it all written down, while it was still fresh in their minds. They quickly learned that their boss, Cowley, was out at a meeting, so they handed their completed reports to his secretary, and left.

As they hurried down the stairs, Bodie posed a question to his friend. "What do you fancy doing tonight, mate ?," he asked. "Who shall we treat to our favours ?," he added jocularly.

"Count me out," replied Doyle disappointingly, "I don't feel that good. I think I might have picked up that 'flu that's going about. I'm going to dose myself up, and have an early night."

Bodie looked at his friend with some concern. True, he did look a bit jaded.

"If I don't feel better in the morning," Doyle continued, "I'll see Dr. Thornton on the way in."

They parted company as they reached their cars, each setting off for his own flat. Bodie was busy thinking about which girl he would call when he got to his place. Susie ? Or was she on nights this week ? Maybe Judy was available. She could be good company.

Doyle's thoughts were quite different. He was trying to assess just how rough he was feeling I think I fancy a hot lemon drink, he thought to himself as he drove away. I've got honey, I know, but I'll need to stop somewhere for some lemons.

So he kept his eye out for the little row of shops he remembered passing on his way home, and soon spotted them. He pulled carefully into a space opposite them, and walked across the road towards the green-grocers.

If he'd been feeling better, he wouldn't have missed the 'tail' he'd picked up soon after leaving the C.I. 5 yard. As it was, he didn't notice the big black car that pulled in some five yards behind him.

He reached the shop and walked in, smiling at the young lady behind the counter. He told her what he wanted, and watched as she selected a couple of nice lemons from the display, and put them into a bag. As he fished out some change to pay for them, he was vaguely aware of the door behind him opening and closing.

Then several things happened at once. ! A look of fear came across the girl's face, a hard object pressed against the back of his head, and a hand came round under his open jacket, and whipped his gun from its holster.

"One sound and she gets it," snarled a rough voice. Doyle froze, and very slowly lifted his hands in the air.

What was going on ?

"Through the back," ordered the voice, and a heavy hand pushed him round the end of the counter, into the open doorway leading to the storeroom at the back, and on towards another door evidently leading outside.

A heavily built man came past him, and opened this door. He stood back to let his companion push his prisoner through first. The pressure of the gun at his head went as the man with the harsh voice shoved him forward to the narrow exit.

Doyle grabbed at a slim chance. He shot forward, grabbing the door handle as he went. He pulled it shut, then opened it again violently, knocking the man behind him off balance, and making him collide with his partner.

Then he took to his heels and fled, heading for a side alley, a bit further up the deserted back lane.

The speed of his action had caught the men off-guard, but it didn't give him quite enough time to reach the shelter he was aiming for. He'd so nearly made it, when there was the soft 'plop' of a silenced gun. The bullet caught him in the back of the leg, and felled him to the ground. Before he could struggle to rise, the two were on him, and a heavy punch from one of them sent him into darkness.

…. .-

The cold, wet impact of the contents of a water bucket brought Doyle abruptly back to his senses. He was minus his jacket and his gun and holster, and his soaked sweat-shirt clung to his body very uncomfortably, as the two men he had already met heaved him up to stand.

He was somewhat dismayed to find that, due to the injury to his leg, he was not too steady on his feet. Certainly not steady enough to start any extreme action against the 'heavies' either side of him.

So he stayed still, and looked around. They appeared to be in a large empty warehouse, _ not completely empty, there were several stacks of tea chests at the far end, partly covered by tarpaulins. I wonder what's in those, he thought idly.

Footsteps sounded on the hard concrete floor, and a man strode across towards them. A big man, with an expensive-looking coat with a fur collar slung across his shoulders, and a strongly-scented cigar clutched in his be-ringed fingers.

He confronted Doyle, who recognised him instantly,- O' Donnell himself ! The recognition must have shown in his face, he realised, as the big man spoke.

"Oh, so you know who I am," he boomed. "And I know who you are. Not your name, that's irrelevant, but you are one of Cowley's men."

Doyle made no reply. They had taken his jacket with his I.D. in it, so there was no point in trying to deny it.

"I've been advised," went on O' Donnell, "that Cowley is out to get me." He scowled and glared at Doyle. "And I can't have that !."

He went on, looking angrily at the man before him. "I've learned that a lot of you have been asking questions and gathering information about me. I want to know how much Cowley knows."

His hand came out and prodded Doyle's chest. "And you're going to tell me," he said.

"I don't know anything," protested Doyle. "Cowley doesn't tell us what's in his head. He just gives us orders."

A hand shot out and slapped him hard. A steely glint came into his eyes, as he struggled to keep control. He was in a bit of a mess, and he couldn't yet see how he was going to get out of it.

"Not the right answer," snarled O' Donnell. He stepped back a bit, shrugged off his coat, signalling to one of his men to take it and the cigar.

Then he proceeded to have a go at Doyle, slapping and punching him. "Tell me what I want to know," he yelled, stopping for a moment, before wading in again ferociously.

As the two 'heavies' had let go of him, Doyle, already unsteady on his feet, was being driven back by the onslaught. He could sense the wall not far behind him.

At last O'Donnell totally lost it. "You're no help at all," he roared, and lashed out with a fierce barrage of punches. Doyle, already unbalanced, was knocked off his feet, and fell heavily backwards, hitting his head on the wall. He slumped to the concrete floor.

O'Donnell turned away, massaging his knuckles. One of his men dashed forward, knelt and turned over the limp form. The blood that met his gaze scared him. "I think you've killed him," he said shakily.

O'Donnell looked back, not the least concerned. "Too bad," was his callous comment. "Still, he wasn't going to tell me anything, was he ?"

"We'll have to get rid of him," whispered the man, getting up. "They'll be searching for him soon."

"Easy," said O'Donnell. "We're going down to Truro this evening. Stick him in the truck. We'll leave soon, an hour early, take a detour via Dartmoor, and dump him there. It'll be ages before he's found _ if ever."

Another thought occurred to him. "Keep the gun. It could be useful, but dump the jacket," he ordered, "Take it somewhere well away from here."

… -

Bodie walked along the corridor, tapped on Cowley's office door, and went in. He found his boss engaged in his usual early morning task, reading the police report, which daily kept him up to date with all that had gone on in London during the previous 24 hours.

"Another raid on a bonded warehouse," Cowley exclaimed crossly.

"O'Donnell's lot ?," queried Bodie.

"Probably," said Cowley, "though as yet we haven't sufficient evidence to prove it."

He scowled at the folder in his hand. "It's time we did something about him," he declared. "Since the first raid on a similar place, when the night-watchman was attacked and severely injured, I've put several agents, including you two, on enquiries about him. We've amassed a fair amount of personal information, but not much criminal evidence."

"O'Donnell sounds Irish," Bodie commented.

"Maybe, originally," agreed Cowley, "but not now. He comes from Cornwall. He owns a big house on the outskirts of Truro, which has been in his family for generations. His parents still live there, looked after by a cousin. He's also got an expensive motor cruiser, moored on a nearby marina, and makes lots of trips across to France. He's been stopped on suspicion several times, but nothing has ever been found."

"He's one of the crafty ones," said Bodie, "who get others to do the actual dirty work, and cover their tracks very well."

"We've dealt with a few like that," agreed Cowley. It often took the slightly unorthodox measures used by C.I.5 to succeed in bringing them to book, when the police could not.

He changed the subject abruptly. "Where's Doyle ?," he demanded. "He's late, isn't he ?."

"Oh," replied Bodie, suddenly remembering, "When I left him yesterday evening, he wasn't feeling well. He thought he might have picked up that 'flu that's going round. He was going home to dose himself up, and if he didn't feel better this morning, said he'd report to Dr. Thornton. Perhaps that's where he is."

Cowley reached for his phone and quickly dialled a number. A short conversation ensued before he hung up again.

"No," he reported, "He's not there. He hasn't seen him."

Bodie whipped out his own phone, and called his friend's home number. He got no reply ! He tried again, ringing the car-phone number. "That's odd," he said, "It sounds as though it's connecting, but it's not being answered."

Cowley was busy with another call. "Ericson," he said, "You're nearest. Go round and check Doyle's place. See if he's still there." A few minutes later, he got his reply. He listened intently and replaced the receiver.

"He's not there," he told Bodie. "The place is secure, but his car's not there."

"Where the heck is he then ?," exclaimed Bodie. Both men looked puzzled. Doyle was usually pretty reliable for keeping base informed of his movements.

"We could put out an APB," suggested Bodie. Cowley considered the suggestion. It was a bit early for such action. Doyle would be annoyed if he was stopped just as he was about to report an explanation of his tardiness.

Just then Cowley's phone rang again, He responded as his secretary put through a call from the police.

It brought surprising news. A resident, who lived opposite the row of shops, had complained about a car left there all night, taking up the space he held a permit for. The police had checked the number-plate, and had made immediate contact with C.I.5.

Cowley ordered two teams out to it. One was mechanics from the car pool, and the other was a forensic team. Both returned negative reports. The car was mechanically sound, it hadn't broken down. The forensic team had found nothing to suggest what had happened to the driver. The car was brought back to the yard.

Then another team were sent to question the shop-keepers, but with no result. None of them had noticed anything untoward, including the man they spoke to in the green-grocers. It never occurred to him to tell them that his daughter had held the fort for an hour while he went to the bank. Thoroughly scared by what had happened, she hadn't said a word about it to him when he came back.

But Doyle's car had been found there, so where had he gone when he left it ? Enquiries continued in the surrounding area, but nothing came to light.

But the following morning when Bodie reported in, Cowley informed him of something that had been brought to his attention.

A charity organiser, authorized to pick up articles from a clothing bank, had found a leather jacket. Going through the pockets, as was normal practice, she had come across a wallet with an unusual I.D. As her husband was a police inspector, she'd called him about it. He'd recognised it immediately, and had alerted C.I.5. The jacket had been brought to Cowley's office.

Bodie recognised it immediately, even before he saw the I.D., and his heart sank. If the jacket had been dumped, what had become of its owner ?

"It was found in Hounslow," Cowley informed him.

"Hounslow !," exclaimed Bodie, looking puzzled, "But that's miles away !"

The facts made no sense at all. Doyle missing. His car in Chelsea, and his jacket in Hounslow. There was no obvious connection.

…. -

Bill Morris was one of those lucky individuals who find themselves to be completely happy in their job. For the last ten years he had been a Ranger on Dartmoor, and had never regretted the day he'd signed up.

He spent most of his days driving his little work-horse truck along the many tracks and bridle-ways crossing the moor, on the look-out for any sign of trouble. He especially kept an eye open for any signs of distress among the ponies that roamed the moor, a rare occurrence, for they were a hardy breed, and looked after themselves pretty well.

A less pleasant task was checking the designated picnic areas and camping-sites, to deal with the litter left by thoughtless humans, debris that could cause harm to animals curious enough to investigate it.

But on a bright day like this, it was a joy to drive along the green bridle-ways, seeing nothing untoward, just occasionally startling a bird from the bushy landscape.

Suddenly, the little truck swerved violently and slewed across the track, as Morris slammed on the brakes.

He didn't believe what he'd just seen !

He jumped from the truck, and looked back. No, he hadn't been hallucinating !

What had startled him was still there, the head and shoulders of a man, rising from among the prickly bushes.

He ran back along the track, and plunged down the slope, very grateful for the heavy-weight water-proof trousers that were part of his man was now fully on his feet. As Morris neared, he could see he was in a bad way, swaying visibly and with a blank glazed expression. He began to topple. Morris made a lunge and caught the collapsing figure. With a bit of a struggle he managed to heave him up onto his shoulder, and turned to make his way back to the path. Reaching the truck, he opened the passenger door, and heaved the now inert form onto the seat. He locked the door to ensure the man couldn't fall out, and dashed round to the driver's side of the truck.

His thoughts were whirring round in his mind. What should he do first ? He'd need to contact the local police, that was certain, but to his mind, urgent medical assistance for the man was the priority. Where should he take him ? He made a quick decision - the nearest Cottage Hospital, not far away, a place called St. Ann's.

He knew Dr. Penman there. He was a good man, and would deal calmly with this emergency. It wasn't long before he pulled into the forecourt of St. Ann's. He was very relieved to see the battered old Ford parked at the end of the space. It meant that Dr. Penman was on the premises, and not out on a call miles away.

He braked his truck to a stop right outside the entrance. He glanced at his unexpected passenger. He did look bad. There was dried blood on the side of his face, and down his neck.

He hopped out quickly and shot into the building. He was lucky enough to meet the doctor just crossing the hallway.

"Dr. Penman," he said, "I've got a sick man out in my truck. I found him out on the moor."

The sensible doctor didn't waste any time asking idle questions. He gave a quick order to the nurse who had appeared from a side room, grabbed the light wheel-chair parked in a corner of the hall, and hurried outside.

Morris was busy unlocking the truck door, and between them they struggled to manoeuvre the man onto the chair. The doctor's trained hand reached almost automatically for the man's wrist, his senses registering the racing pulse, and he could feel the heat from him too. It was evident he needed some urgent care. He rushed the chair through the entrance and on into the room his efficient nurse was getting ready. Morris followed him, not sure what he was going to do next.

He watched as the doctor made a quick examination. "I think I should go to the police," Morris ventured, uncertainly.

"Yes, Bill, you must," said the doctor, as he found the leg injury. "This is a clearly a gun-shot wound, and I have to report those at once."

"It'll take a while for them to respond," said Morris. "There's nowhere very close."

"That won't matter," said the doctor, "He' not going anywhere for some while yet." He turned to his nurse.  
"Let's make him comfortable," he said, "And we must get his temperature down as soon as possible."

Morris went back to his truck. He decided that it would be best if he went straight back to his base and phoned from there. It would save time.

It was late afternoon when a police car turned into the forecourt at St. Ann's Cottage Hospital. The man who emerged from it, and was shown into the office, found Dr. Penman busy with some paper-work, and introduced himself as Inspector Reynolds.

"I've come in response to a message left by Ranger Morris," he said, "about the man he found on the moor, and brought here."

"Ah, yes," responded Dr. Penman, "I was expecting to hear from someone about him."

The Inspector took out a notebook. "If you could give me the details," he began. The doctor looked puzzled.

"Details ?," he queried. "What do you mean ?."

"Well, his name would be a start," said the policeman.

"I've no idea," answered the doctor. It was the Inspector's turn to look puzzled, so the doctor explained.

"Bill Morris brought the man to me this morning," he began, "but he is very ill. He has two nasty injuries, one a gun-shot wound, and an extremely high fever that we are fighting to bring down. He isn't capable of telling us anything yet."

"Oh, I see," said the Inspector, putting his note book away, "I obviously didn't get the full story. What about his clothes ? Any help there ?"

"None at all," replied the doctor, "He was only wearing a sweat shirt and jeans. Nothing in his pockets."

"So we've got ourselves a mystery man," said the inspector, "Interesting ! Do you think I could see him ?,"

"Of course," replied the doctor, getting up to lead the way. As they walked he added a comment. "Morris doesn't think he's a local man," he said, "He knows a great many of the people round the area because of his work."

As they entered the small room, the nurse, who had been straightening the bedcovers, turned to report to the doctor.

"He's beginning to respond to the medication," she said, "but he's very restless. He keeps muttering odd words, but nothing that makes any sense."

"Yes," replied the doctor, "He's going to be delirious for a while yet. It's to be expected, the condition he's in." He and the policeman stood at the end of the bed and regarded the occupant.

"I've never seen him before," said Reynolds. "I don't think he looks like a countryman, do you ?"

"No," agreed the doctor, "He's in very good shape physically. I expect that's what helped him survive, but there's no sign that he does heavy manual work."

The inspector had his note-book out again, and was entering the meagre information he had learnt. "White, slim and fit, dark curly hair, about early thirties, I should think," he said, looking to the doctor, who nodded agreement.

The patient was stirring again, tossing restlessly and un-tucking the covers the nurse had just tidied. He was muttering feverishly. "Lemons," he whispered, "Get some lemons."

The three listeners exchanged glances. "At least he speaks English," said the doctor, "even if it doesn't make much sense."

"Will you take a note of anything he does say ?," asked the inspector. "It might be more useful as he gets better. I'll leave you a phone number to reach me." The doctor and nurse agreed to do this, and the inspector left.

"I'll start making some enquiries about 'missing persons'," was his parting remark as the doctor escorted him to his car. Where to start though, he asked himself, as he moved off.

The next morning, the night nurse reported to the doctor as he started on his morning rounds."He is improving, though very slowly," she said, "He's still delirious, naturally. He muttered about lemons and honey a couple of times. Oh, but he did come up with one name, O' Donnell."

"Could be his name, I suppose," mused the doctor. "Try it, see if he responds."

Several times during the ensuing day, the patient was addressed as Mr. O'Donnell, but he did not respond at all. In fact, he shook his head when they tried it. They concluded that their idea was wrong.

"This afternoon, he did say 'Truro'," reported the nurse, "Maybe that's where he's from."

"I suppose I should pass that on to Inspector Reynolds," said the doctor. "I've got his number in the office. I'll do it now."

The policeman thanked him for the information. "That will widen our search a bit," he said, "I've tried all the nearest places, but there's no word of a 'missing person' that anyway fits him."

With the expert care he was receiving, the patient gradually began to improve, but his progress was slow. The fever had taken a real hold on him.

One afternoon, Inspector Reynolds turned up unexpectedly. "I thought I'd come and tell you what progress I've made, Not that it's much," he declared as he settled in Dr. Penman's office.

"I've a brother, who's also an inspector," he began with a smile, "In Truro, as it happens. I phoned him and told him about our mystery man. He rang me back last night. His wife does a lot of social work, and she knew of some O'Donnell's in Truro, so he visited them. They are an elderly couple, easy to talk to. They told him they haven't any relatives in that age group. They do have a son, who lives in London, but he's quite a bit older. He comes to see them quite often, apparently. He was there a few nights ago, but he's gone off to France in his yacht. He does business over there, and they never know when he'll be back."

"So we're no further forward," commented the doctor, "But he is improving steadily. I'm hopeful that the fever will go soon, and then he'll be able to tell us about himself."

The next day, their untiring care was rewarded with a small break-through. The patient had been a lot quieter all day, not as restless, and sleeping well. He seemed to be half-awake as he watched the nurse who had come in to draw the blinds as the evening light faded.

"It's been a lovely day," she said chattily, "It seems a shame to shut out the last rays of sunshine." She was not expecting any response.

But a voice came from the bed behind her, weak but rational. "Ray," it said, "That's my name, Ray."

The nurse turned round and hurried to the bedside. "Ray," she said urgently, but the moment has passed. He had drifted off to sleep again, the dark lashes down upon the pale cheeks. Had she imagined it, she thought to herself. No, he had spoken, she was sure.

Just then Dr. Penman came in on his evening round, and she told him about it excitedly. The doctor moved to grasp the patient's wrist.

"His pulse is steadier," he commented.

"He's been better all day," said the nurse, "and his temperature is down too." The two experienced carers exchanged looks.

"I think we may well have him back with us tomorrow," said the doctor hopefully, as they left and dimmed the lights.

Early next morning, the nurse entered the small room, and crossed over to pull up the blinds, letting in the daylight. She turned to her patient, and found herself being watched by a pair of eyes, clear, and well-focussed. She hurried forward.

"Ray," she said eagerly, "that is your name, isn't it ?."

"Yes, Ray Doyle," came the very quiet reply. A look of distress came over the pale face. "So weak," he whispered.

"Don't worry," said the nurse re-assuringly, "You will be for a while, for you've been very ill. But now the fever has passed, you should make rapid progress. Dr. Penman will be so pleased."

She pressed the bell, and a few moments later the doctor hurried in, fearing an emergency. But as the nurse had said, he was totally delighted to see the change in his patient.

"We'll soon get you fit again now," he said happily.

"Police," said Doyle feebly, "must talk to the police."

"I'll ring Inspector Reynolds right away," said the doctor. "He's been making enquiries about you." He hurried from the room.

"It'll take a while for him to come," warned the nurse, "so let's start getting you better. Do you like yoghurt ?."

Doyle nodded. He was dismayed at how weak he felt, he was tiring already.

"Yoghurt and soup for today," the nurse promised happily, "Something more substantial when you're stronger."

She dashed off, and came back with a creamy yoghurt, which she carefully fed to him. Swallowing was a bit of an effort, but the taste was very pleasant.

"Now, sleep," she ordered, making him comfortable. "The inspector won't be here till the afternoon, I shouldn't think. He's got quite a way to come."

Doyle roused himself a bit to ask the obvious question. "Where am I ?." he queried.

" 's Cottage Hospital, in Devon," she replied, as she tucked him in. A puzzled look swept over the patient's face, but tiredness took over, and he drifted off to sleep again.

When he awoke, a few hours later, he was pleased to find that he was already feeling a little better, and could think a bit more. Devon ? , he pondered.

The nurse poked her head round the door, saw he was awake and shot off. She appeared again a moment later, with an orderly in tow. Together they very carefully eased their patient into a sitting position, propped up with several pillows.

"Better for managing soup," she told him cheerfully, and was rewarded with the flicker of a smile.

She disappeared again, and came back with a bowl of soup, homemade in their own kitchen. She'd brought an extra spoon, in case he wanted to feed himself. He did start to do so, but found it tiring, and was content to let her finish the job.

"Tasty, very nice," he commented, as he rested back against the pillows.

But still on his mind was the urgency of what he had to do next. "The inspector ?," he asked.

"On his way," she replied. "You just rest quietly. He'll be here soon."

Inspector Reynolds smiled to himself as he drove through the quiet country roads on his way to the little hospital. He'd been quite frustrated that his enquiries about the mystery man had come to nothing.

A colleague had suggested to him that perhaps it had been a drunken prank, a stag-night revel gone wrong, and those responsible were too scared to come forward. It was just possible, he mused, though the gun-shot wound rather belied that idea.

He'd been pleased when the news was relayed to him that the young man was recovering. Now he could interrogate him, and get the truth.

Dr. Penman met him at the door of St. Ann's, and escorted him to the room.

"Don't keep him talking too long," he advised. "He tires very quickly, and needs his rest."

The inspector pulled a chair up to the bedside, took out his note-book, and studied the man before him. He did look pale and tired, propped up in bed with numerous pillows. But he was here to get answers.

"Now, young man," he said briskly, "let's has some details about you."

For a moment there was no response, as the patient looked at him steadily. When he did answer, the policeman was somewhat taken aback. The voice, though quiet, was firm and authoritative.

"Inspector," said Doyle, "I need your assistance, but I must also insist on your discretion."

Surprised, the inspector nodded agreement, and sat forward to listen. In the next few minutes, he learnt some startling facts. At the end, his attitude had changed. "What do you want me to do ?," he asked quietly.

"I need you to contact the Met," said Doyle, "And through them C.I.5 and my boss, Cowley. They will have been searching for me, no doubt, but not here."

The inspector stood up to go, and Doyle added an instruction. "Not a word to the people here yet," he said. "I'll tell them as much as they need to know later." The policeman understood this, and made his way out.

Dr. Penman came out of his office, and followed him out to the car. Naturally, he was curious to hear what the inspector had learned, and was a bit upset when the man did not enlighten him.

"I've got some phone calls to make," was all he said.

"You could use the phone in my office," suggested the doctor helpfully.

"No, I need to do it from my station," said Reynolds, his mind very much on the important task ahead of him. He climbed into his car, with a departing remark.

"Look after him," he said, "He's special."

The doctor grumbled to himself as he went back in. What did he mean,saying he's 'special' ?. All my patients are special.

Cowley straightened the papers on his desk into the correct order, and tucked them into his brief-case. He was leaving a shade early, as he had a meeting to go to later, one he wasn't particularly looking forward to.

It had been a very bad week. It looked as if he had lost one of his best men, Ray Doyle. He'd been missing for nearly a week. Extensive searches had been made, but all with negative results. It was as if he'd vanished off the face of the earth. And it was on the cards that he might well lose another good man. Bodie had been growing steadily more silent and morose, and he half-expected to find his resignation on his desk very soon. Doyle's disappearance had affected the morale of many other operatives too. He'd been a popular man, and would be greatly missed.

He collected his hat and coat, picked up the brief-case, and moved towards the door. Suddenly the phone on his desk rang shrilly. Annoyed, he leaned over the desk and picked up the receiver.

"What is it ?," he demanded crossly.

"Sir," said the switchboard operator, "It's a call from the Met. They have an Inspector Reynolds, from Devon, who is very anxious to speak to you."

"Is it important ?," snapped Cowley. "I'll be late for my meeting. I don't know the name. And from Devon ?," he added incredulously.

The operator interrupted the angry flow of words. "He says it's about Doyle, sir," he reported.

Cowley dropped his coat and briefcase, as he shot back round the desk and into his seat. m"Put him through," he ordered brusquely.

"Inspector Reynolds, sir," came the voice on the phone. "I've been asked to phone you. One of our Rangers, on patrol, found a man out on the moor. He was ill, so he took him to the nearest medical facility, a small cottage hospital. I was called in because the man had a gun-shot injury. He had no I.D., and was delirious for days, and all our enquiries came to nothing. But he improved. I went to see him this afternoon, learned his name and a great deal more, sir. He asked for my discretion, and told me how to contact you through the Met."

"Ray Doyle ?," said Cowley, "Describe him please."

The following few words cleared all doubt from Cowley's mind. Doyle was alive !

"Inspector Reynolds," said Cowley. "Your news is very welcome. We've been searching for him for days. But not so far afield."

"He's still pretty ill," went on the inspector, "but he's in good hands and is making steady progress."

"It's too late for anything tonight," said Cowley, trying to marshal his racing thoughts, "but I'll send a man down first thing in the morning."

"You'd better get him to report to me at Okehampton," said Reynolds. "The hospital is only small, and he'd have a job to find it."

Don't you believe it, thought Cowley to himself. Bodie searching for Doyle, he'd find him, 'come hell or high water."

"I'll arrange that," said Cowley, "and you have our thanks for your help."

"Glad to do it," said Reynolds, and the conversation ended,

Cowley looked at his watch. He was going to be late for his meeting. He picked up his coat and brief-case and moved towards the door. Then he stopped. Keeping Bodie in the dark till the morning would be too mean. They'd just have to wait for him at the meeting. He put his coat back on its peg, and sat down at his desk. He picked up the receiver and called the switch-board operator.

"Locate Bodie for me," he asked. "I don't know where to suggest you start."

But to his surprise, the man was back very quickly. "It was easy, sir," he said, "He was at his flat. Putting you through." Cowley hadn't realised that Bodie's black mood had put an end to his customary socializing.

"Yes, sir ?," said Bodie.

"I've a special job for you in the morning," Cowley began,"Pack an overnight bag and get in early. You're making a trip to Devon."

"Devon, sir, ?," queried Bodie in surprise. "Why am I going there ?."

"Well, you do want to find Doyle, don't you ?," said Cowley, enjoying the moment. "I've just had a call to say he's been found down there."

"Doyle's alive !" exclaimed Bodie, with new life in his voice. "How on earth did he get there ?."

"I don't know ," said Cowley, "Perhaps he'll explain it to you when you see him."

"Can't I go now ?," asked Bodie eagerly.

"And arrive in the middle of the night !," said Cowley. "No, early tomorrow will be better. You are to go to Okehampton, and contact an Inspector Reynolds. He'll fill you in on details and take you to him."

And I'll spend all day waiting for your report, he thought to himself, as he collected his things and hurried off to his meeting.

Bodie arrived as early as he dared, parked his own car, and raided the well stocked car-pool for something more substantial, in case he met with rough roads. He also picked up a useful map of the area. He was ready to leave, when Cowley turned up. He didn't attempt to delay him, though he did issue some words of advice to his over-eager agent.

"Bodie, drive sensibly ! There's no need to go breaking speed limits, he isn't going to disappear again. Report to me when you can."

Bodie grinned ruefully. His boss was probably right to caution him. He was desperately anxious to get there, to see how his friend was, particularly as he'd heard he had been ill and injured.

Doyle was feeling a lot better. He was eating better now, and sleeping well. The orderly had very neatly given him a shave, and the nurse had cleaned away the dried blood from his hair and tidied it. He was still annoyed with how weak he felt, but the nurse assured him that that was natural after the fever he had had, and that the doctor was very pleased with his progress.

"We'll be getting you up soon," she said, and that made him much happier.

He was wondering too how Inspector Reynolds had got on, and how soon he would hear from him.

Lunch had been very nice, and now he was resting. He heard the sound of a car on the gravel outside. Could that be the inspector ? Maybe not though. There were other patients, and the afternoon was the time for visiting.

He felt himself beginning to doze. The sound of his door being opened brought him awake again, and he opened his eyes. What he saw astonished him !

"Bodie," he exclaimed, his voice gaining a new strength.

"Hi ya, mate," said Bodie cheerfully, beaming all over his face as he pulled a chair up to the bedside. The relief he had felt as he entered the room had been so exhilarating. True, Doyle looked pale, and was leaning back heavily on his pile of pillows. But he was here, and quite clearly alive. He'd almost given up hope on that during the last few frustrating days.

"How on earth did you manage to end up here ?," he asked. "We tried to trace your movements but the trail petered out in London very quickly."

"I'm not totally sure," replied Doyle, "but when I tell you all I do remember, we might be able to make a good guess."

He went on to explain to Bodie how he'd gone into a shop for some lemons, and had been hi-jacked and badly treated by O'Donnell and his men.

"And that's the last I remember till I woke up here," he said at last, "and feeling like 'death warmed up'."

"Apparently you were pretty ill, and delirious for days," said Bodie, "No-one had the slightest idea who you were, or where you were from."

"Until I was well enough to talk to Inspector Reynolds," confirmed Doyle.

"He's a good chap," said Bodie. "We talked a bit on the way here, and decided that all we need to tell anyone here, is that we work for the Government, our work is classified and not to be talked about. He's busy explaining that to Dr. Penman now."

"That should be all right," agreed Doyle.

"And as regards how you got here, as you said we can have a good guess, -O'Donnell !"

"Well, we do know he goes down to Truro quite often," said Doyle, "to visit his parents."

"And to take his boat to France," added Bodie. "I think that might bear some further investigation."

He sat back in his chair. "Wow," he said, "What a lot I'll have to tell the boss when I get back. He'll be even more determined that something has to be done about O'Donnell."

Just then they were interrupted by the entrance of the doctor and the inspector. "What happens now ?," asked the inspector ?

He had taken to Bodie at once, and was finding the whole scenario very interesting. Although he wouldn't be able to talk about it, meeting some men from C.I.5 had really impressed him. A huge divergence from his usual routine.

"What I really would like," said Bodie with a smile, "is to stick him in the back of my car and take him home, but I've a feeling Dr. Penman won't let me."

"Certainly not," replied the doctor instantly. "He is nowhere fit to travel yet. Just look at him ! Half an hour's conversation and he's already looking weary."

"I'm all right," protested Doyle.

But Bodie had been thinking it through. "My brief," he said, "was to assess the situation, report to my boss, and start back in the morning. I'll find somewhere to stay overnight, and make a phone call."

"I can help you with that," said the inspector quickly.

"Thank you," replied Bodie. He turned towards Doyle. "With the doctor's permission, I'll drop in on you before I leave. What you have to do is think what clothes you want brought and where I can find them."

He turned to the doctor. "Dr. Penman," he said "I'm delighted to find him as well as he is. It sounds as if you worked wonders. I'll pass your phone number on to my boss. He'll keep in contact for progress reports, and as soon as you say he's well enough, he'll send someone to collect him. I hope it will be me," he added with a grin.

He turned back to Doyle. "And you," he said. "Behave yourself, do as they say, and continue to get better. We want you back again soon."

Bodie left with the inspector, who took him back to his station to make his call from there. Cowley was out, so he left a short report, saying just that he had found Doyle, lucky to be alive, recovering well, but not yet fit to travel. He would tell him the details of the story when he got back.

Reynolds kindly offered to put him up for the night, and took him home to meet his wife. She produced a good meal, and a comfortable spare room, and he thanked her profusely. During the evening, Reynolds took him to the pub that Morris frequented and he learned at first hand the details of the surprise the man had had when Doyle suddenly rose out of the bushes. Bodie thanked him too.

True to his word, he popped in to see his friend before he left on the long drive back to London. He found him rested after a good night, and looking forward to getting up later in the day.

Bodie made good speed back to London, stopping only for a bite of lunch before reporting to Cowley's office early in the afternoon. He then proceeded to give his boss a full and detailed report of everything Doyle had told him. As he related the rough treatment that O' Donnell and his men had meted out to Doyle, he could see the anger rising in the normally self-controlled man. He waited for his comments with some eagerness. At last they came.

"O'Donnell," growled Cowley, "He's gone quite far enough ! We have to do something about him, and soon."

He consulted a paper on his desk. "I understand he's taken his boat across to France at the moment, but I'll be informed when he comes back. In the meantime we'll intensify our enquiries into his activities."

Over the next few days, Doyle made excellent progress, mainly due to his determination to do so. He was back on his feet, first with human support, then with one crutch, and finally on his own. Dr. Penman was very pleased, and when Cowley called to check on his agent's progress, he was informed that he was now fit enough to travel.

"I'll arrange it," said Cowley, and thanked the doctor and his staff for all the care they had taken.

"It was a close call, but we managed it," replied the doctor happily.

Bodie was delighted when Cowley informed him that he could make the journey to collect Doyle. He made a call to his friend's flat, to pick up some clothes for him, and then returned the key to the office. A couple of the girls had kindly volunteered to do a quick clean up, and to re-stock the 'fridge. They, like many others, were very pleased that Doyle would soon be back.

Doyle, too, was delighted when the doctor informed him that someone would be coming to fetch him the following day. He hoped it would be Bodie. So he was both pleased and surprised when, just after lunch, his friend strolled in, followed by Murphy.

"I drove down. He'll drive back, so that I can keep an eye on you," his mate explained.

"I'm all right," protested Doyle. "I don't need treating like an invalid."

"Boss's orders," replied Bodie, "Don't grumble about it. We're not complaining. A nice run in pleasant countryside, and lunch on expenses !"

He turned to the little nurse who had just entered, and added cheekily, "And pretty girls to look at."

The poor girl was quite taken aback. Used to elderly country folk as patients, three attractive young men all at once, were a bit over-powering. As she told her friends later, "I don't know who they were or what they did, but they were all 'dishy'.

Bodie dumped a bag on the bed, and opened it. "I hope I've brought the right things," he said, as Doyle began to investigate. "We want you to look respectable if you're driving with us," he said teasingly, and grinned widely as his partner threw a sock at him.

It didn't take Doyle long to get dressed. It felt good to be wearing proper clothes again.

All three said repeated thanks to the doctor and his staff, and then they were off on the long trek home. Murphy was driving, and Bodie and Doyle reclined in the back. They had one break for a cup of coffee, and arrived back in London in the early evening.

They went straight to Doyle's flat. He was rather surprised to see Bodie's car parked by his door. But his partner explained quickly.

"I'm staying with you tonight," he said, "Then in the morning I have to take you to Dr. Thornton. If he says you're fit enough, you can pick up your car. It's in the yard."

Murphy took the big car they had used back to the car-pool, and collected his own. He reported to Cowley that they were back, and that Doyle seemed to be fine.

"Right, I'll see him tomorrow," said Cowley. Then, unusually for him, perhaps reflecting his mood of relief, he added. "I expect he'll enjoy sleeping in his own bed after all this time."

So the next morning Bodie took Doyle to see Dr. Thornton. His verdict was that Doyle was pretty fit considering all he had been through. But his report, which would go straight to Cowley, recommended light duties for a week. Then he would see him again and probably give him complete clearance. Doyle was a little disappointed as he felt fine, but Thornton's word was law with their boss, so there was no point in protesting.

From there they went up to Cowley's office, where Doyle was asked to tell his story again in his own words. When he had finished, Cowley sat back in his chair, and repeated what he had said before.

"Something has to be done about O'Donnell," he snapped, and there was underlying anger in his voice.

"I've been thinking about that ," said Doyle. "That warehouse we were in, - at the far end of it there were piles of boxes, and I think the markings on some of them suggested they were from the bonded warehouses that were raided. That would definitely tie O'Donnell in with those raids."

"But you were out cold," protested Bodie, "You haven't a clue where the place was, have you ?."

"No," admitted Doyle, "but we might be able to find out."

"How ?," demanded Bodie fiercely, "There are hundreds of warehouses in London."

"More like thousands, I should think," interjected Cowley dismissively.

"Yes," agreed Doyle, "but with a process of elimination we should be able to bring that number down."

Cowley had second thoughts. It had sounded at first like a mad idea, but Doyle was a thinker, and had often before come up with plausible and successful ideas. "Go on," he said, now prepared to listen.

"Well, first of all," began Doyle, "it was a rectangular space, with stained glass windows at one end."

"A disused church !," exclaimed Bodie, "Well that immediately cuts the numbers down a lot, doesn't it ?,"

"There are still a lot of those," said Cowley a bit repressively, but he was showing interest.

"We can eliminate a lot more that have been taken over and restored for legitimate purposes," went on Doyle. "Day centres, play groups, drop-in coffee shops."

"Furniture repositories, there are quite a few of those," added Cowley, beginning to see possibilities emerging.

"But I think I can go a bit further," continued Doyle, "Those stained glass windows, the light was coming straight through them. The time of day was early evening, so the sun would have been in the south-east, wouldn't it ? That gives us an idea of the orientation of the building."

"And a check with a compass could eliminate many of them," exclaimed Cowley. This was getting interesting !

"Right," he said, "You two get off to the Computer Centre and get this process of elimination started. Report the results back to me."

"I wonder what the final number will be ?," said Bodie, as he drove out of the yard.

"Not too high, I hope," replied Doyle, resigned to being a passenger for a little while longer.

And even they, who were expecting them, were staggered by the results. The first high number began to shrink rapidly, and then it reduced again and again, as the computer did its eliminating work. The final number was a surprise, even to them, and they carried it back to inform their boss.

"Well ?," he said, as they returned to his office.

"It's come down to only seven 'possibles'," said Doyle excitedly. "Can we start having a look at them, one by one?. I'll know instantly when we find the right one."

"We'll look at them, very cautiously," agreed Cowley. "But it won't be you two doing it."

"Why not, sir ?," exclaimed Bodie. He'd been looking forward to anything that would help them catch up with O'Donnell.

"Because O'Donnell and his men might see and recognise Doyle, and I would prefer that he doesn't find out that he's alive just yet."

Bodie had to admit to himself that that did make some sense.

But Cowley, not usually wrong, was under a bit of a misapprehension.

O'Donnell had already discovered this and it had given him a bit of a shock.

How ? He had inadvertently learned it from his parents !

He had returned from France, well satisfied with his business there and had decided to stay a couple of nights in his Truro home. His mother had been chatting about what they had been doing while he was away.

"We had a visit from a policeman," she said, "He was trying to identify a mystery man who had been found on Dartmoor. He was very ill, he said, but had muttered the words 'O'Donnell' and 'Truro'. But we couldn't help him. It didn't mean anything to us."

But it meant a lot to their son !

Trying to sound disinterested and casual, he posed a query. "Did you hear any more about it ?," he asked.

"As a matter of fact, replied his mother, "I saw the policeman's wife yesterday at our social club, and I asked her if they had solved the mystery."

"What did she say ?," her son asked, trying not to sound too eager.

"She said her husband had asked his brother, who was dealing with it, and was told it had all been hushed up. The man has recovered and gone back to London."

O'Donnell took all this in, and his mind began to whirl. What should he do now. ? The man was alive, and would have told his story to his boss. Now Cowley would be after him with a vengeance !

"I'm going back to town tonight," he announced suddenly.

"Oh dear," said his disappointed mother, "I thought you were going to stay a few days."

"I've just remembered something important I have to attend to," he said, and hurried away to pack his stuff in the truck.

He had been so careful all his life to keep all knowledge of his criminal activities well away from his parents. But now it was all getting too close to home.

He said a hurried goodbye to his bewildered parents. Then he drove into Truro, where his two men had been staying, and without explanation, hassled them into quickly re-packing their bags and joining him in the truck.

"What's up, boss ?," queried one of them as they drove off, "Has something gone wrong ?."

"Very wrong !," snapped O'Donnell crossly. "That C.I.5 man we dumped on Dartmoor. He wasn't dead ! He was found and taken to hospital. He recovered and he's gone back to London !."

The two listening men were badly shaken by this unexpected turn of events. They had been very elated before, as the trip to France had been very successful and would earn good money, but now the outlook had changed dramatically.

"C.I.5 will be after us !," exclaimed one. "What are we going to do ?" he gasped, and there was sheer panic in his voice.

"Will you shut up," said O'Donnell angrily. "I'm trying to think."

"We ought to shift some of our stored stuff," said the other calmer man.

"I was thinking that, too," said O'Donnell, glad that one of his men at least was thinking more practically.

When Bodie and Doyle reported in next morning, and went to see Cowley, he already had some useful information.

"Four of those 'possible' sites were checked last night," he told them, "and they were all eliminated. They managed to get into each of them. They were all totally empty, and the lack of any marks on the dusty floors suggested they had been so for a long time."

"That has narrowed it down," said Bodie happily.

"The other three will be checked tonight," said Cowley. "They are all in busy commercial areas, so we don't want to arouse suspicion by showing any interest in the daytime while there is a lot of coming and going."

"Can we go ?," asked Doyle eagerly, "I'd know straight away if it was the right place."

"No," said Cowley, "Barton is leading the team tonight."

Then he re-considered and relented. "You can go as back-up," he said, "but stay well out of the way unless Barton calls you in."

This didn't entirely satisfy Doyle, but he wisely accepted it without protest.

So the midnight hour saw the pair sitting in their parked car, streets away from the first target of Barton and his team. The waiting, doing nothing, was very frustrating. The car-phone 'beeped' and Doyle grabbed it eagerly.

"Not this one, I'm afraid," came Barton's firm voice, "Next stop is the place in Millside Street. Not that far away, so follow us there."

"Understood" said Bodie, signing off and starting the engine. A little while later saw them parked again in a convenient side street, and waiting.

But not for long !

The phone 'beeped' urgently, and Barton's excited voice sounded in their ears. "Jackpot !," he exclaimed, "We've just had an encounter with O'Donnell and a couple of his men, busy loading crates into a removal van, They started to put up a bit of resistance. Then O'Donnell panicked. He abandoned his men, and cleared off in the van. Can you pick him up ?, It's light blue and heading south."

"There it is," exclaimed Doyle, leaning forward to gaze up the road, "just shot out of that turning up ahead."

"In pursuit, Barton," confirmed Bodie, revving his engine.

It was a good job that the streets were pretty empty at that time of very early morning, for O'Donnell was driving the cumbersome vehicle pretty erratically. It clipped kerbs, and swayed violently, but O'Donnell didn't have the sense to slow down. He was in total panic. All he knew was that C.I.5 were after him. If they caught him he would be finished.

He careered wildly on his way. Bodie, although controlling his speed for the sake of safety, was steadily gaining.

As O' Donnell swung wildly round a corner, Bodie let out an exclamation."Fool," he exclaimed, and slowed down. Doyle looked at him questioningly.

"There's a low bridge on this road," explained Bodie, "and at the rate he's going he won't be able to stop." He was right. As they swung round a curve in the road, the drivers of both vehicles could see the road signs, and the low bridge looming up ahead of them.

There was a screech of tortured metal as O'Donnell slammed on the brakes in a desperate effort to stop.

"He won't make it," gasped Doyle, as they watched the stricken vehicle.

With an almighty crash the van ploughed into the low arch of the bridge. The sound of splintering wood and breaking glass shattered the silence of the night.

Bodie, who had the speed of his car well under control, pulled to a quick halt, and he and Doyle were quickly out, and approaching the shattered scene. They both had their guns at the ready, but they were not needed, as O'Donnell was slumped in the van's cabin, looking totally defeated.

They looked him over quickly and decided he was badly shaken, but not actually injured. So they hauled him out, and began to lead him back to their car.

The sound of a police-car siren filled the air, and with flashing blue lights, a squad car pulled in behind theirs. Barton had acted quickly. Having secured the rest of the stuff piled up in the warehouse, and O'Donnell's two rather shaken and subdued men, he'd contacted Cowley, who was at base waiting for news. He had immediately alerted the police.

Great, thought Bodie and Doyle. They can deal with this mess. We'll take O'Donnell back to the Interrogation Centre. No doubt Cowley will want answers to a few questions before he hands him over to the police.

As they moved along the side of the van, Bodie became aware of the very strong smell coming from it and as they reached the back, they saw a thin trickle of reddish-brown liquid falling into the gutter, and down to the nearby drain.

"Oh," said Bodie cheerfully, "Looks as if you've broken a few bottles, mate. Now that's a bit of a waste, isn't it ?."

Some time later, Bodie, driving Doyle back to his flat, cast a look at his mate. "You're pensive, sunshine," he said, "What's on your mind ?."

"I was thinking of all that wine and spirits going into the sewers and on down to the sea," replied Doyle. "What about the rats, and the fish ?."

"I guess it's pretty diluted by the time it gets to the sea," said Bodie.

"Good," replied Doyle, "I can imagine a drunken sewer rat, but not a 'tipsy' trout, or a 'high' haddock."

"You do get 'soused herring'," retorted Bodie.

Their laughter filled the car and carried them home, to snatch a few hours rest before resuming their never-ending battle against crime.


End file.
